On #WorldPoetryDay here’s a tale of a friend in desperate search of a muse.
Writing a poem is no child’s play
some struggle with it every single day.
I had a friend who was one such
The poetry bug had him truly in its clutch.
Each morning at his table he would determinedly sit
and slog over a rhyme with perseverance and grit.
He struggled with his craft, he took each advice
he tried every technique, every single poetic device.
Come afternoon he’d be quite disgruntled
Sitting in a sea of paper all crumpled.
The best way to do it, someone once told him
is to set your thoughts free and watch them growin’.
Sit back and observe as your poem comes alive
Why just one, you can write twenty-five!
He did just that but his thoughts ran away.
He found them with the pretty girl he met last Monday.
Make her your muse, counselled another friend,
But she gave him a cold shoulder and that was the end.
That’s not the end, said the friend super excited,
heartache will get your poetry love ignited.
Back at his desk, our friend rolled up his sleeve,
he wallowed in his sorrow, and let his heart grieve.
He sat down to write collecting each lovesick thought
but his stomach gave a rumble and his love he quite forgot.
He pondered his dilemma munching on a muffin
blissfully savouring its chocolate blueberry stuffing.
He lay back on his chair, he quietly shut his eyes
he dreamt of soft cakes, of doughnuts, of pies.
The glorious silken chocolate wove its dark magic
And he forgot everything till the very last lick.
Then the words came rushing, words of inspiration
That muffin seemed to have been divine intervention.
He wrote and he wrote as one in a trance
He had after all found his true romance.
He’s all famous now, he’s one of a kind
He’s the only poet with dessert on his mind.
And now he’s mobbed by every budding poet
They ask him and beg him, ‘let us in on your secret’.
Says he with shrug, there are no hidden clues
in the end it’s just about finding your muse.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to persons dead or alive is purely accidental.